The Edge of the Winter Coast
by sessile
Summary: House and Wilson try to hide what they're doing, even from each other. [HouseWilson. Spoilers for Half Wit.]


Wilson was on top of House, thrusting in a near frantic rhythm, when he did it: he touched House's face before going in for a kiss.

House immediately knocked his hand away. "Don't fucking do that," he said harshly, too loud for the silence in the room.

"Sorry," Wilson whispered. House caught his mouth in a hard, suffocating kiss.

Wilson continued thrusting himself against House. It was just some rough frottage, but it was enough: Wilson could feel his orgasm coming like a freight train. His harsh pants soon turned into harsh pants of House's name: "_Greg... Greg..._"

"_Shut up._" House's voice was as strong and tight as the arm he vised around Wilson's neck, pinning him. He felt House's hand clamp hard onto his ass, and it was a shock and too much and Wilson came right there with a half-strangled shout. Wilson kept thrusting as long as he could, burying himself in each warm flush of sensation.

Dimly, he became aware of House's still hard dick jutting into his pelvic bone. He reached down and grabbed it before House could say anything.

"James..." House said between pants "... put your..." He made a short indication with his chin.

Wilson registered a moment of humor - House, coy about asking for a blowjob - but the strain of House's body was beautiful, and Wilson didn't want it to dissipate. Wilson bent down to suck the tip and pumped hard on the shaft. Wilson heard House's head flop back onto the pillow, and his hips struggled to thrust up into Wilson's mouth as he came.

Wilson swallowed as much as he could, then pulled away, gasping. House's penis was covered in a sheen of come, and Wilson turned away from it.

Wilson sat up more fully, and pressed his fingers to his brow, trying to breathe. He concentrated hard on the feeling of clarity that orgasm brought, and willed to keep other thoughts at bay. There was a calm there, and a peace; he just had to hold onto it.

He could hear House breathing quickly, steadily behind him; they didn't touch further. Wilson closed his eyes and exhaled a long breath, then slid off the bed and stood. He headed off to the bathroom for a wash cloth.

When he returned, House was still sprawled out on the bed, with an arm over his eyes. His penis lay flaccid between his legs, and even in the low light the contrast between House's left leg and his right was great. Having cleaned himself off, Wilson tossed the wash cloth onto House's stomach. House removed his arm and opened his eyes, and the blue of them was startling for a moment. Wilson never took much stock in the beauty of men, but there was some in House, when he was caught in the right light.

Wilson wanted to stay and he didn't - the hotel was too quiet, too lonesome, but to stay here, especially in that bed, would be too much. House, who was never one for physical contact in the first place, now practically forbade any touch that was remotely sentimental. If he were to sleep in House's bed, it would have to be as an unfortunate bunkmate, and that would go against Wilson's nature. Wilson could never touch another person's body impersonally.

"I'm going to get going," Wilson said quietly, gathering his clothes. House merely nodded as he wiped himself down, then tossed the rag off onto the floor. Wilson sighed and picked it up and threw it into House's hamper.

Wilson got dressed, and House got himself under his covers. As Wilson stood by House's bedside, about to click off his lamp for him, he looked down at House, whose eyes were closed and breath was slowing towards sleep. The impulse was there again - to stroke his head, to lean down and kiss him good-bye - but Wilson knew better and refrained. Instead he said in a subdued tone, "Good night, House," and turned off the light.

xxxxx

They didn't speak of what they did at work, didn't even give a hint about it. Wilson suspected that House's team knew anyway - their own sanity hinged on being able to read House's moods, and they were all highly intelligent diagnosticians: a change in House plus a change in Wilson equaled a change between them. And since they were still around one another, perhaps more so, then...

Foreman's look was faintly disapproving, Chase's confused and curious, and Cameron's cold and possibly seething. House, of course, couldn't care less, and it wasn't Wilson's department, so Wilson just stayed civil and a bit more distant than before. Especially around Cameron.

But it was still a secret that they kept, and one they were hesitant to give away. Secret-keeping had to be second nature to House now, and as for Wilson... he didn't even want to think of the implications if people knew. Their friendship was nebulous enough - this, whatever this was between them, was positively a black hole.

They didn't live in a vacuum, though, so the reality of what they did encroached. Foreman, asking Wilson where House was, with the full expectation that he would know. Chase, calling the apartment with an emergency and Wilson having to pick up. And Cameron, just always with the intrusive eyes, having worked so long on the puzzle of House and deeply resentful of the new variables to consider.

For Wilson, it was a struggle to not show how much he wanted House. Memories of past encounters made him burn; imaginings of future ones made him want to hold House down in his desk chair and kiss him raw, with the fellows speculating in the next room.

Their lives went on, though, no matter how deeply swept under by the current Wilson felt.

xxxxx

House fucked Wilson up against the wall of his apartment, hanging heavily onto his shoulders. The pain nearly blinded him; he wished he hadn't declined House's offer of Vicodin before they'd started. But House was relentless, and he soon hit a spot within Wilson that made him relax by degrees, until he just rested his head on the forearm which braced him and House against the wall. Wilson was groaning, probably loudly, and House was taking it slow, drawing the sounds out one by one.

House suddenly bit his neck, right near the shoulder, and Wilson knew that House was going to come, so he closed his eyes and opened himself to receive every shudder, every pulse that emanated from House's body. Wilson was on the verge of coming himself, but didn't, and he breathed deep in the feeling of floating between worlds. That is, until House brought him crashing back down and jerked him off heavily until he actually did go blind.

Wilson slowly came back to himself, with the sensation of House's thumb almost imperceptibly stroking his spent dick, and the press of House's body on his back. Wilson shifted, to let House know that his weight was too much for him now, and House pulled himself out and away from Wilson.

Wilson looked up to see a simple questioning look from House and an incline of his head, and Wilson nodded in response_. You joining me in the shower? Yes_, was the exchange between them. It was like their method of communication had changed from words to this, and sometimes Wilson wondered if sometimes things were lost in the translation.

_Is it love? Do you love me? What is this?_

_I won't answer that. Don't ask me.__  
_  
xxxxx

Wilson soon got a clue as to an answer when House caught him attempting to talk to a nurse in a less than professional way. It was purely friendly chatter, with perhaps a flash of charm thrown in, and par for course as far as Wilson was concerned. As soon as he saw House's near-glare boring into him, though, he was caught so off-guard that he stopped.

"What was that about?" Wilson asked in hushed tones as soon as he got near.

"Don't start or we stop," was House's succinct, terse response.

House was never really willing to share Wilson's attention much in the first place, but this time Wilson felt the finality behind the words if he did breach this. Wilson felt he understood, though - they couldn't take their eyes away from this; it was too fragile, too carefully balanced. They weren't safe; they had to stay sharp, they had to pay attention.

Wilson got a taste of how delicate things were, even for him, when he saw House one day standing too close to Cameron. House had long ago told him about the kiss the two had exchanged - House's ripple of desire during the telling of the story had passed through Wilson, too; he should have seen then what was to happen between him and House - and Wilson hadn't thought too much of it. Cameron was highly attractive - stunning and possessed of an inherent vulnerability made more appealing by her attempts to cover it up.

But Cameron was standing within the intimate space of House, and even from ten feet away Wilson could see the want in her eyes, in her body - and it took Wilson actually holding onto himself in order to not to burst through the door and pry them away from each other. Possessiveness was something new to Wilson - by virtue of everything he did in life, he had to be able to let go. He gave patients their last bundle of hope, of comfort, and gently sent them on their way, back into life or into the unknown. With his wives, he'd done the same - except for Julie, who found herself being let go and was furious when she saw Wilson fade into the distance. Nothing was his to keep - he would know these people, fully and deeply, and let their memories slide and shift within him, keeping him company.

So to even want to keep House to himself was a shock. Wilson found himself being greedy - every glance not couched in sarcasm and disdain, he wanted; every barely deigned touch, should fall on him; every word said in a voice that didn't come from the deep, inner core of his bitterness, was his to receive. Not wasted on someone who was ultimately passing through.

But for Wilson to try to take hold of anything now would upset the balance; so instead he forced himself to pass by, without an acknowledgment of his presence.

He would just take more later, when he could.

xxxxx

Wilson, flat on his back, was holding tight onto this body threatening to break him apart. House was being too rough to be good, but somehow it was, anyway - Wilson face was locked into a fierce grimace. They would come soon, and it would be over.

Wilson ran a hand through House's hair, and it felt like he was stealing something - House acted as if he did, too. He turned his head away, aggravated; Wilson's hand hovered in mid-air.

House was too quiet for him these days. They were too quiet. They spoke to each other only in this way - skin pressing against skin, forcing knowledge through the pores. Wilson felt himself straining under the overload of information.

"House," Wilson tried first, then immediately tried again - they had long passed that boundary. "Greg."

House sat at the edge of the bed, having about to rise from it. "What."

Wilson realized the words were useless now; they had moved beyond that. Touch was the only way, but Wilson didn't know what to say. Wilson thought about starting off with a brush to his neck, or his leg - maybe to sit next to him, their sides briefly in contact. But House was never one for politeness, niceties - if he was going to speak, it'd have to be significant.

Wilson moved across the bed and pressed a kiss onto House's cheek - awkward, blunt. House naturally recoiled. Wilson would have to be more honest than that.

Wilson skimmed his fingers over the gaping expanse on House's right thigh, and House visibly shuddered. Wilson felt horror, and maybe even revulsion, but he didn't shy away from it; he just let it exist.

A string of tension had snapped in House, and he sagged a little from the loss of it. He didn't touch Wilson in response, but he didn't pull away. He just sat still on the bed, with Wilson's hand lying in the crevice of his leg.

xxxxx

"'Morning, Dr. Wilson. House," Chase said, his disposition the embodiment of a bright but still faintly chill April morning. "Good day so far?"

Wilson looked at up from his seat across House's desk, and saw that Chase was addressing them as one. He knew. They all had to know. 

"Yeah, Chase. Fine day. I hope it lasts until the weekend," Wilson said conversationally, with a glance at the white sunlight outside the balcony door.

"Any plans, Dr. Wilson?" Chase stood at ease, clasping the file to his chest.

"I don't know. Any plans, Greg?" It was easier than Wilson thought. His eyes flicked over at House.

There may have been a flicker of tension, there may have not; Wilson didn't catch it in time. House shrugged, not looking up. "I have no idea."

Wilson shrugged himself. "Well. There you have it."

The look on Chase's face made Wilson wonder if he'd won the office pool. "Hm. Yeah. I see." Chase allowed himself a small smile; Wilson could see that he was getting more pleased - with what, who knew - by the minute. "Well. I'll leave you to it, then."

Chase exited House's office, and Wilson watched as he took a seat amongst the other fellows at the conference table. He seemed to waste no time in making the announcement. Wilson could see Foreman's scoff and the shake of his head. He could see the flex of Cameron's hands into fists and knew it was nausea. Chase seemed to find everything right with the world. Funny - Wilson would have never pegged Chase as the romantic.

Then again, he would have never pegged himself as one, or House.

_fin_


End file.
